


Bullets and Burns

by jothtendou



Series: OC Adventures: Jett Paris [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Burns, Guns, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 16:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10364253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jothtendou/pseuds/jothtendou
Summary: Jett was never meant to be a socialite. His temper always got him in trouble. It was only a matter of time before his outbursts cost him — more than usual, anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> more short fics about how jett got some of the scars he sports~

 It wasn’t often that Jett was invited to the fancy rich people parties his parents frequented. The only occasions his parents allowed him to enter a get together where their image was on the line was when he was asked to attend by name. This was one of those times. The Paris family had been  _ cordially _ invited to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of some company Jett had already forgotten the name of. His parents had ditched him at the “kid’s” section of the party, which was just the lower level of the Marriott hotel.

The kids on this floor were all spoiled, rich offspring ranging from ages fourteen to twenty; dangerous ages filled with spite and privileged sneers. Jett hadn’t wanted to attend. He hated dressing in suits. He hated playing nice with people who were only using him to network. He hated the low voice his father used when warning Jett to behave himself.

Jett knew the night wouldn’t pass without incident. He was seventeen and barely able to reign in his anger in the presence of his sister who was ten years his senior and attending the “adult” section with his parents, likely drowning in compliments and well wishes. Katia was the perfect child Jett’s parents had wanted him to be. Jett didn’t hold it against her. She didn’t have the same issues he did. She didn’t have a backbone, either, and never said a word to their parents in his defense. But that was how she was. She was still family. Whatever that word was supposed to mean.

Jett stared blankly ahead from his place against the far wall of the room. The ballroom was open with a makeshift dance floor in the middle and various tables on the left and right sides. At the back of the room, where Jett did his best to pass the time by sipping at expensive fruit punch, was a long table filled with high quality snacks and beverages. Music played from speakers hanging from each wall and the lights were dim enough to have the entire scene resemble what Jett assumed prom looked like.

It was a disgusting gathering of adolescents. The age gap between dancing couples was blurred by lack of proper lighting and eagerness from the younger party and desperation from the older. It was a shit show. Jett grimaced as he watched a man who was definitely older than him breathe down the neck of a girl who looked like she was in middle school.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Jett stared down at his empty cup and moved back to the refreshments table. Up until this moment, he hadn’t been bothered. Everyone had been too busy doing whatever the hell to pay him much mind. But this time his presence near the punch bowl was noticed by a small group of posh looking boys. Jett ignored them as he filled his cup with the red liquid.

“Jett Paris?”

Jett looked up to stare back at who could have been the poster boy for Teen Vogue. Blond hair, blue eyes, a tan that looked too orange to be real, and a dazzling white smile that shone too bright under the flickering lights.

Jett didn’t answer, opting instead to sip at his drink and turn away. The guy must have assumed Jett didn’t hear him, because he moved closer and leaned in as he held out his hand for a shake.

“Jett Paris! It’s a pleasure to meet you. I love your father’s work. I’m Preston Woods. My father is CEO of Woods Investing.” The blond blob and his small group of clones looked expectantly at Jett and Jett stared back.

He couldn’t hope to keep himself in check, so Jett didn’t pretend to look the slightest bit interested as he said, “I don’t care.”

His words took Preston visibly aback, almost comically so. Jett stared back with a stony expression as he took another sip of his punch.

“ _ Excuse _ me?” Preston demanded, smoothing down his jacket and glancing at his fellow rich sons. “I’m just trying to make conversation. You look pretty pathetic over here by yourself.”

Jett wasn’t impressed. His father’s voice chose then to ring in his head, so Jett turned and started back to his corner of the room.

Unfortunately, Preston wasn’t the type to be turned down and didn’t know how to handle it. He stomped after Jett and grabbed him by the arm. “Hey! I’m talking to you.”

Jett did not like being touched. The grip on his arm sent a jolt of white-hot anger and panic through him and on instinct he yanked Preston forward by his tie. He pushed Preston up against the wall face first, his palm grasping at the blond’s neck as his eyes went dark with violent intent.

He sneered at the other shocked members of Preston’s group. “You don’t touch me,” Jett said simply, voice low and dangerous. He took one of Preston’s arms and folded it behind his back. He released Preston’s neck in favor of twisting his arm at a painful angle. “I don’t care who your parents are. I don’t care who you will be. Don’t.  _ Fucking _ . Touch. Me.”

Jett’s pocketknife felt heavy in his dress pants. He wouldn’t need to use it. Not on these people. They’d likely never been exposed to violence in their entire lives. Sickening.

“You idiots.” Preston gasped in pain as Jett twisted his arm more. “You  _ outnumber _ him.”

Jett snorted at that.  _ As if it would make a difference.  _ Still, the group inched forward with their fists raised, all in different, despicable forms. Jett blinked at them and then promptly pushed Preston into them. They went down like bowling pins. Jett had to snicker.

They were up on their feet soon and rushing at Jett. At least they were intelligent enough to attack at the same time. Jett delivered punches to each of their mouths, ignoring the blows he received to his ribs and abdomen. After a short time of this, Jett grew bored and yanked Preston from the group. Gripping his face, Jett pushed him down against the refreshment table, his free hand reaching into his pocket and bringing out his knife in one swift motion. Jett held the knife in front of Preston’s face, grinning at how he squirmed at the sight of it.

“Now,” Jett said, his excitement betraying the blasé tone he wanted. “How about I cut out your tongue? Or maybe your fingers, since they were the real perpetrators. You should learn how to mind personal space.”

Someone approached Jett and he swiped his hand out cleanly, leaving a straight line across the man’s cheek. The draw of blood shocked all of them, as if Jett’s behavior up until now hadn’t  _ truly _ been dangerous. Jett wanted to stab them all for taking him lightly.

“You’re a fucking psycho,” Preston shouted. He was still beneath Jett’s hold, though, likely out of fear.

Jett spit at him, watching it hit him between the eyes. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“ _ Jett Elias! _ ”

The shriek of his mother’s voice had Jett shoving his knife back in his pocket and stepping away from Preston in an instant. He turned his gaze up to meet the furious eyes of Lydia Paris. Colton, Jett’s father, wasn’t far behind. The music had stopped and all eyes were on the small group at the back of the room. Jett didn’t know how long that had been that way.

Neither of his parents had to speak. Jett moved to go with them wordlessly, staring straight ahead and ignoring the way the crowd of bodies parted for him. 

* * *

 

Repercussions were dealt out three weeks later. Jett’s homeschooling tasks were always finished early enough for him to sneak out into the borough of West Chester. On this day, he’d been walking aimlessly. It was always a toss up for what he’d do to pass the time when he didn’t want to be stuck inside. Video games only occupied him for so long.

As he walked, Jett gained a creeping sensation. The more ground he covered, the more intense it became. He was being followed. A few passing glances in glass displays showed it was a larger man, maybe two. Jett wanted to sigh. His mother would wring his neck for this, but there was no escaping now. He wasn’t one to run, and no one cared enough to jump in and save him. Deus ex machina only existed in fiction. 

Figuring he would be better off facing this problem head on, Jett turned on his heel to face his stalker. The man stopped as well, tensing as if he expected Jett to jump him. In retrospect, Jett thought it would’ve been a good idea.

“What do you want?” Jett asked, bored.

The man jerked his head to the side, signaling the alleyway nearest to them. A stupid idea to follow, but Jett didn’t have anything better to do. He followed the man and wasn’t surprised to be shoved up against the brick, a large hand at his neck. Jett stared into the man’s eyes, grasping his pocketknife and swiftly shoving it into his torso.

His aim must have been off, because even if the man grunted in pain, he didn’t immediately die. Using the lull in power to his advantage, Jett punched the man in the throat and shoved him away.

“Is that a movie myth, too?” Jett mumbled, rubbing at his neck.

He moved away, taking backwards steps as he kept his eyes on the stranger. That proved to be his demise. A second figure appeared from behind and wrapped their arm around Jett’s neck. Jett struggled to no avail and was forced to sit on the cement as the man he stabbed removed the knife from his chest and threw it to the ground in annoyance.

“Fucking brat.”

“Givin’ ya problems?”

“Job isn’t worth this prick’s fucking attitude.”

Jett barely heard their words. He was getting lightheaded from the chokehold. Metal pressed against his skull and Jett’s body froze on its own accord.

“So he  _ does _ know how to heel.”

Jett didn’t react to that comment, despite how much he wanted to stab again. The gun pressed against his temple made him cautious. Anger was Jett’s default emotion, but he was smart enough not to struggle against a trigger-happy hit man.

“Listen, kid. This isn’t personal. So just hold still and we won’t give you anything fatal.”

Jett smiled at that, wide and sarcastic. “How kind of you. May I ask who hired you?”

“You’ll find out.”

In the next moments Jett was hefted to his feet and dragged to a Buick with blacked out windows. He was shoved into the back seat and he made a point of kicking his assailant in the chin with the heel of his boot.

The bullet went through his shoulder. The silencer muted the shot, but the sound mixed with the pain was deafening to Jett. He clenched his jaw, always stubborn about pain. He wouldn’t make a sound no matter what happened to him.

“I told you to fucking hold still.”

Jett smirked but went limp in the backseat. He stared at the roof of the car as it started up and they began to move. The radio was turned on and turned up loud, likely to drown out any possible screams of pain or additional gunshots.

The torture was standard at first. Jett had his own pocketknife used on him, carving across preexisting scars. At one point he was flipped onto his stomach, shirt shoved up to his shoulders to expose his back. He couldn’t see, so the first press of the cigarette lighter against his skin shot an unexpected jolt of pain through him. In his mind, Jett was shouting every profanity in every combination he knew, but Jett made no sounds aloud. The drag of the lighter was much more painful and Jett had to dig his fingers into whatever was nearest to him to keep himself grounded.

The car stopped and there were a few more presses of the lighter over Jett’s shoulder, and then it was all done. His shirt was pulled back down and the weight of another body was lifted from his legs.

“Marker.”

Jett stared at the car door as he felt and smelled a sharpie being used to write something on the back of his neck. Then it was over. He was pushed out of the car and onto the curb next to the hospital. Jett watched the car go, not bothering to memorize the license plate number. It’d likely be changed soon enough. Jett wasn’t a nark, anyway.

Instead, he turned to walk into the hospital. The staff was familiar with him by now. He even had his own personal doctor to deal with him, an arrangement his mother had so graciously set up for him.

 

  
Later, Doctor Martinez would tell him it was the word “Woods” that had been written on the back of his neck. 


End file.
